A NonVerbal Thing
by silver-moonshine
Summary: Sherlock/Moriarty - The mouth and tongue may work in unison to perform one conversation, but the eyes say something else entirely. Maybe it's time they worked together. Slash. Lemon. Deviates into AU.
1. Visual Exchange

**Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Jim Moriarty belong to Conan Doyle. The vague mentions of plot belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. **

**This was written before the second series came out, so is based upon the then common assumption that Sherlock does indeed shoot the bomb and blows them all up. As we all learned, assuming is the last thing you can do when it comes to the creations of Moffat and Gatiss. Therefore this deviates into AU.**

**WARNING: SLASH, LEMON in later chapter. Don't like it? Go away.**

** NOTE: EXPLICIT DETAIL HAS BEEN CENSORED due to fanfic regulations. You can find the full version on my LJ account, the link for which is at the bottom of my profile.**

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It wasn't a verbal thing. The cool, mocking voice swept over him but the words only registered on a basic level. Those dark, beautiful eyes said all they needed.

Sherlock wasn't one to pay heed to only words. People could be tricky with them. More often than not people said one thing but meant completely the opposite. Usually he didn't care to decipher their true meanings unless it was for a case, but today he did.

He could see in his peripheral vision, his only friend, John Watson. Sweat was beading on the man's brow as he tried to remain calm despite the bomb strapped to his chest. The serious eyes of a soldier in his element flickered to Sherlock's and then away. Most would think he was nervous, or scared. The consulting detective knew that the doctor was excited – body thrumming with adrenaline and serotonin. He practically vibrated with it. But it wasn't John's admittedly pleasing eyes that held his.

Brown was such an underrated colour. It was usually used to describe dull, average people. It was a colour that allowed people to blend in. How often had a witness been unable to recall the details of a brown haired, brown eyed man's appearance? It was undeniable that the usual slow witted people Sherlock had met tended to notice those with blonde or red hair much more so than brown.

But these brown eyes were anything but forgettable; sinfully dark, chaotic, a hint of inanity and glee making them gleam brightly. Piercingly intelligent, hopelessly bored. The eyes of a man who had been utterly broken and then sewn together again with anger and hate. Sherlock could imagine that they had once been sad, as his own had. But where Sherlock had tamed his sadness into scorn, Moriarty had tempered his into wickedness. Despite that, Holmes knew, they were more alike than anyone else each had met. It was somewhat... _pleasant_. Add in the guns, and the bomb, the perfectly tailored suit, the hint of an Irish accent and their slightly sinister if unconventional setting... well, pleasant became downright _fun_.

'I will burn the heart out of you.'

Said organ clenched uncharacteristically, and he glanced at Watson hoping it hadn't been somehow noticed. The soldier's eyes were averted, plotting away. So Sherlock turned his attention to the petite man before him and slightly, ever so slightly, smiled.

Those chaotic eyes blinked once out of rhythm and then a delighted grin blossomed. Moriarty took a short step forward; eyes blazingly warm and he discretely licked his lips. Sherlock followed the movement greedily and felt a startling flicker of arousal.

Their eyes clashed once more, one smug, the other considering. It was a game, just like everything else. But it was a game completely unlike any other. With a smirk the smaller, dangerous man left.

Common sense dictated that the rather anticlimactic exit wouldn't last. Quickly Sherlock stripped his closest friend of the bomb and threw it as far away as possible. As they swapped relieved banter the detective gave silent thanks that he hadn't lost quite possibly the only person in Britain that could put up with him on a daily basis.

Then, of course, Moriarty strode back in. So clever, Sherlock thought – the false relief made his return all the more horrifying. The consulting detective had to exert considerable effort to stop himself from laughing in delight. Here was a man who liked to be unpredictable and dramatic as much as he was brilliant. Sherlock could appreciate that. But two could play at that game.

The brown eyes locked with his taunted him: _What are you going to do now?_

Sherlock's eyes glittered with child like glee: _I advise you to run._

Watson nodded at his inquiring glance, the Browning swung round, and Moriarty was already making a swift exit. His ecstatic grin was the last thing Sherlock saw before the report of a gunshot echoed round the room closely followed by an explosion.

A body slammed into his, carrying them both into the pool. A ball of orange flame swept over the surface of the water, the roar of the explosion muffled oddly. It didn't take long for the initial blast to cancel out, and the pair emerged from beneath the water with desperate gasps.

As they clambered out the pool and away from the crumbling inferno the building was rapidly becoming their gasps turned to laughter. John's was edged with relief and the rush that came with adrenaline. Sherlock's was simply brimming over with delight. He hadn't had such fun in years.

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**R&R **


	2. Physical Exchange

**Disclaimer: Sherlock, Watson and Moriarty belong to Conan Doyle. The vague mentions of plot belong to the clever buggers who created 'Sherlock' - Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss (aka the Trollmasters). Only the sex is mine (and I can live with that).**

**WARNING: SLASH, LEMON - content has been cut due to rating regulations, but you can find the full explicit version on my LJ account (link at the bottom of my profile)**

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It was ridiculously easy to sneak out in the end, even with Mycroft's various means of surveillance. All it took was a quick hack into a single camera, the speedy placement of a feedback loop and after that it was a simple matter of climbing down the drainpipe outside his bedroom, down onto Mrs Hudson's back porch and out through the yard gate. Watson was on a date once again with what's-her-name, probably already engaging in pre-coital rituals that were as ridiculous as they were repulsive. He had honestly gagged after hearing his usually level headed friend cooing over her 'stunning eyes', and receiving the equally as insincere hormone-fuelled flattery in return with thoughtless acceptance. Idiots, the both of them.

So while the wider world probably considered Sherlock to be sulking in his room, he was in fact making swift progress towards one of the gems of underworld London which was, oddly enough, a park in the loosest sense of the word. There was certainly grass, but the pathways crisscrossed and weaved inconceivably so often that it was more of a maze. You could walk for hours and not see a single person because of the clever use of shrubs to create little hideaways.

The graceful man made sure he was seen by plenty of people before he entered the park, and once there found an empty single bench amid a swathe of rose bushes, where he sat and began to think.

Normally sitting and thinking quickly became unbearable after a certain amount of time, of course depending on the puzzle. This particular problem however was particularly delicious, and had the added benefit of emerging from the gloom and taking a seat next to him before even a half hour had passed.

'Hello my dear.'

'Moriarty.'

'Oh please, I think we're past the last name stage don't you? Call me Jim.'

Sherlock nodded his head almost imperceptibly in acquiescence. He could practically feel the smile emanating from the shorter man. The consulting detective shuffled slightly, perturbed by the way his skin prickled at the proximity. They were close enough to be sharing body heat.

Silence reigned for a while after that. One of the more interesting silences Sherlock could recall, as he strove to figure out what exactly was happening here, and what it could mean in future. Moriarty appeared to be doing the same.

It naturally couldn't last, especially between two such brilliant, ever bored minds.

Quicker than Sherlock could protest he found himself with a lapful of master criminal, unexpectedly strong thighs straddling his own and arms flung casually over his shoulders. This brought them, for the first time, eye to eye.

'So my dear, what should I do now that I have you? Or do you have me? One really can never tell.'

Mischievous brown eyes burned into his.

'What options are available?'

Slender pale fingers, as petite as the man they belonged to brushed unexpectedly softly against a high cheekbone. Moriarty hummed thoughtfully, fingers moving on to trace other facial features. Sherlock somehow knew his skeletal nuances were being named and memorized, even as the man spoke.

'Well, I could kill you of course.'

Moriarty's expression didn't change until Sherlock smiled a little, then he winked. Despite the sincerity of his statement. The criminal sighed regretfully.

'But as much fun as that would be, my entertainment would be short lived. You're much more interesting alive. For now, that is. So, wanna play?'

The fingers trailed to the back of Sherlock's neck and wiggled their way beneath the collars of his clothing, tracing the contours of his spine. The detective smirked, finally moving his own hands so that they lazily grasped the back of the man's expensive looking coat,

'I thought we already were.'

Moriarty chuckled, shifting closer and whispering intimately into the taller man's sensitive ear,

'Games within games, my dear. Games within games.'

Sherlock gasped, startled despite having a good idea of what was to happen, as firm lips crashed against his own in an almost cruel kiss.

It wasn't the first Sherlock had received, but it was by far the most stimulating. He groaned eagerly, feeling himself come alive in ways he hadn't experienced before.

They kissed brutally, bruisingly, fighting even now for dominance and enjoying every second of the glorious battle.

As Sherlock won the battle of their tongues, he lost the war of control as quick hands slipped beneath his clothing, pushing the folds of his shirt aside, caressing and scratching at his flesh with little mind to sensitivity or pain. It made him want to curse. So he did, arching into the sensation with the delight of one well accustomed with the concept of pleasure via pain.

The cruel mouth left his and bit into his just about bared shoulder, drawing blood from the goosepimpled flesh and a hum of bliss from its owner. Moriarty grinned, blood in his teeth. Carefully he licked the wound, and then spoke into the nearby ear.

'Do you know what we call you in my association? The Virgin.'

The body beneath his own stiffened and he kissed at the thin mouth once again, huffing in amusement as a vengeful nip at his lower lip had gore dripping down his chin. As they kissed, the taste of their blood mingled and Moriarty moaned carelessly into the warm mouth attached to his.

Cold slender hands slid up beneath his coat, pressing flat against the heated flesh at the small of his back, acknowledging but for now ignoring the ridges of old scars they found there. The criminal hissed at the chill biting into him from those sinfully beautiful hands. Warm lips caressed his pulse point, gently suckling at the vulnerable spot in way that was almost mocking.

They both knew that all Sherlock had to do was bite hard enough, hold on long enough, and Moriarty would be one Master criminal that would be among the first to die of a hickey.

It made the Irishman's toes curl delightedly.

Teeth scraped across the vulnerable flesh, and he laughed, heat pulsing in his groin at the sensation.

The thrilling mouth moved on.

The buttons of each shirt were quickly dealt with, and Sherlock could only watch breathlessly as the small nimble hands continued on down his chest and to his waistline, unbuckling and then unzipping his trousers. Doggedly, the detective followed suit, shuddering in the cold of the night as it became evident that Moriarty had foregone underwear.

Many motives and baffling reactions clicked into understanding as they pressed against each other, the heated flesh of their torsos slicked with sweat despite the clear night air. They kissed again, frantic, uncontrolled, Moriarty revelling in every second of it and Holmes unsettled. For once however, he let his hormones guide his better sense. Illogically, despite the unpleasant feelings lingering in his mind, he was thoroughly enjoying every second, and in the manner of pleasure junkies everywhere, suddenly found himself wanting more regardless of what he had to do to get it.

Jim's hips were moving now, wriggling against his own until a breath-stutteringly fantastic sensation borne of friction, frissioned up their spines. Sherlock groaned helplessly, head flung back as the mastermind chuckled lowly against his throat.

'I think I may have to change your nickname.'

Sherlock slit open his eyes, darkened grey meeting dangerous brown. Words were not needed. They didn't mean anything anyway. Warm lips were on his again, and smaller fingers tangled with his, drawing his hand down the silky back and pressing two of the long digits into that special spot.

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**Explicit content censored**

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Panting, they rested, forehead to forehead as they came down from their high, eyes blissfully closed as the chilly air stung their damaged skin. Humming happily the Irishman's eyes fluttered open, and with almost child-like dedication, he rubbed the evidence of his release into the detective's torn skin. Sherlock in turn smiled and drew Greek symbols into the sweat at the small of his nail-bitten back.

Somewhere (St Paul's, Sherlock noted absently) a bell tolled the hour, stirring them from their dreamlike state. Biting his lip, and ignoring the pleasurable sting from his wound, Jim slipped off of the softened penis, smiling as the detective flinched, and as semen tickled his bruised flesh.

Curious fingers probed his sodden, stretched hole, and they kissed again – gently at first, then with increasing force. Moriarty groaned as blood blossomed from Sherlock's lip, their tastes mingling once more. Regretfully he pulled back, licking his lips happily as the fingers slipped from within him. Not bothering to re-dress beyond pulling up his trousers and zipping them so they remained hanging loosely from his hips, the consulting criminal stood and backed away, a grin lighting up his face and his eyes glittering in the darkness that quickly swallowed him. Their eyes remained locked – they didn't need meaningless words – until with a final satisfied look-over, the Irishman was gone, prowling back through the streets of London to wherever he was hiding out, not hiding the evidence of his brutal conquest as street lights harshly lit the raw, bloodied flesh of his hips and waist.

Sherlock remained on the bench a little longer, a small grin playing at his lips as he stretched languidly, grunting happily and then sighing pleasurably as his taxed muscles tensed and then relaxed.

Gracefully he stood, tucking himself away and loosely buttoning his somewhat ruined shirt. Blood stained the light material, and more than one hickey stood out starkly against pale skin that went unconcealed by his loosely wound scarf.

Carefully he disappeared into the backalleys of London, nodding in greeting at the familiar faces that turned upwards at his passage. Like a cat he climbed Mrs Hudson's extension and up the hard-to-find footholds that allowed him to slip in through his window before the clock struck half past the hour.

Uncaringly he flung off his clothes and slipped naked into the cool sheets of his bed, sighing once before an uncharacteristically easy sleep overcame him. Half way to dreaming he noted the need to remove the feedback loop before it was discovered, and then was away into the bizarre realm that his ever busy mind conjured for his night-time ponderings.

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**R&R if you want :)**


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